


The Turn of the Times

by Melbourne2627



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-03-31 13:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3979906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melbourne2627/pseuds/Melbourne2627
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In their fifth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy, two very different boys meet at one of the strangest times in the wizarding world. A dark lord is rising, storms are brewing, and everything and everyone is full of questions. Can they find the answers, and battle the oncoming darkness?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. About a Boy

                _He was walking towards the front of the Great Hall, packed among other first year students, a nervous tremor running through his body. In all his eleven years, he had never felt so on edge. He had always been in control of himself, and the fact that his mind wasn't as clear as usual was making him even more uncomfortable. There were four possible destinations, each with its own perks and disadvantages, but he would only end up in one, and it would tell him a lot about himself-things he didn't know, maybe things he didn't really want to know. His family was scattered into all different houses. Even his own skilled mind failed him at that moment, unable to fathom were he would be placed. He knew so much about the rest of the world, but it seemed that he barely knew anything about himself._

                Sherlock was curled in the armchair of the common room, catlike, a book open on his lap. His eyes, however, were barely open, as he gazed sleepily at the ceiling, remembering his first day at Hogwarts. It was all so distant and fuzzy, but he could remember with detail all of the emotions clawing and biting at his gut. 

                _That old, worn hat had taken what seemed like eternity to place him, and when it announced to the entire school that he was to be in Ravenclaw, the only emotion he felt was relief-relief that he wasn’t stuck with Mycroft, relief that he had been sorted and the wait was over, and relief that the hat hadn’t told him that it was all a mistake and he was a squib with no magical abilities whatsoever. He was in a daze for the rest of the feast, barely touching his food._

_When he first stepped into the Ravenclaw common room after dinner, he had been in awe. With all of the calming dark blues, the high, arched ceiling with constellations dancing about, and the towering windows that showed a spectacular view of the grounds. Everything excited him beyond imagining._

                The boy twisted his face into a kind of grimace-smirk gesture that attempted to display both longing and amusement simultaneously. Over the next four years, his excitement had sapped away quickly until he found himself bored with everything. He soon learned that even for a Ravenclaw, he was different. He had expected to be surrounded by scholars in a house known for its intelligence, but even as a first year he stood out, rivaling the sixth and seventh years in skill. It didn't take long for the other students to push him away, and he grew quite accustomed to being alone.

                He soon learned to love that loneliness-it was his constant companion, always there for him, never changing. If he got acquainted with sadness, how much could anything hurt him, really?

                So he delved into books and learning, poured himself into his studies, and excelled beyond belief. His intelligence allowed him to quickly master even the most complicated spells, and he was soon renowned as being one of the most talented students Hogwarts had ever seen-except, of course, Albus Dumbledore.

                However, this pleasure in learning faded as it began to grow redundant to him. It was an escape, and became only that; not a source of excitement or joy. Sherlock struggled to find a point in anything, really, and so once his work was finished, he took to curling up in an armchair with a book until he fell asleep.

                Shaking thoughts of this downward spiral out of his head, he ran a hand through his dark curls and tossed the book carelessly onto the coffee table.

                The common room was empty now, and there was a distant rumble of thunder somewhere over the mountains. He curled up in the ledge of the center window, and slowly drifted off to sleep, his face pressed against the glass, as the first drops of September rain began to cascade down from the heavens. Perhaps this year would be different.


	2. A Not So Chance Encounter

                Sherlock sat down at breakfast in the Great Hall the next morning, poking lazily at his fried eggs with a fork. He usually didn't bother coming down for breakfast (why should he, when that could just be an extra half an hour spent sleeping?), but as it was the first official day of the first term, he had to pick up his schedule and figured this would be easier than tracking down Professor Flitwick later.

                He sighed with boredom as the small, elderly head of Ravenclaw house handed him a piece of parchment which his schedule scribbled on it. The classes should be a bit more interesting this year compared to the last, but they still wouldn't be to much of  a challenge for him. After Christmas break the previous year, at the start of the second term, he had talked with Professor Flitwick about taking his O.W.L.s a year early, so he could skip to his sixth year.

                While the Professor had been in agreement with Sherlock that he shouldn't have a problem passing the exams themselves, he thought it would be better for Sherlock to continue along at the usual pace-skipping ahead would mean missing a whole year’s worth of new spells, which could lead to difficulties later on.

                Sherlock assured him that he would purchase the books and learn them over the summer, but the tiny wizard had also said that upon leaving Hogwarts, he would have some trouble finding a decent job as the ministry hired wizards and witches who were at the very least seventeen, and preferred eighteen.

                However, Sherlock had studied the fifth year textbooks vigorously over the summer, and had even purchased the sixth years ones in case Professor Flitwick changed his mind. In any case, they would be a good resource to have, and something to occupy his mind in his spare time.

                Monday was Sherlock’s lightest day by far-he had double potions, a period off, lunch, and then Charms. The rest of the afternoon he expected he would need for studying and homework. He remembered in the past watching fifth years work until the small hours of the night to complete their assignments and prepare for examinations. Even though it was the beginning of the year, Sherlock expected professors would already be stressing the importance of their O.W.Ls.

                The Ravenclaws had Charms with the Hufflepuffs, which was not unusual, but it surprised Sherlock to see that for Potions they were paired with the Gryffindors. The way the schedules had worked out, Sherlock had not personally had a class with Gryffindor since second year-Transfiguration. Apparently the two houses had continually had Divination together, but Sherlock had opted out of taking that class, believing it to be a waste of time. Instead, he had filled the time slot with Ancient Runes, a class that was still on his schedule, but not until Wednesday.

                Looking down at his watch, he saw he had approximately half an hour until he had to be down in the dungeons. Back in Ravenclaw tower, he shoved his potions book, notebook, quill and ink into his bag, grabbed his ingredients kit, straightened his blue and bronze tie, and set off.

                It was about a fifteen minute walk from Ravenclaw tower down to the Dungeons, so the boy arrived with only five minutes to spare. He was, however, one of the first few there. He only vaguely recognized a few of the Gryffindors, who must have come straight from breakfast. As far as Sherlock knew, Gryffindor tower was even farther than the Ravenclaw one.

                Once most of the class had congregated outside of the classroom door, Professor Slughorn opened it from within, with his usual dramatic flourish.

                “Welcome, welcome!” He exclaimed in his booming voice. “Take your seats, why don’t you, and pull out your cauldrons while you’re at it! We have some exciting concoctions to brew up today!”

                He beamed at Sherlock as he took his seat at an empty table; Over the years, Sherlock had received a multitude of fancy invitations, welcoming him to some of Slughorn’s evening parties, to which only the famous, talented, and popular were welcomed. Sherlock, however, preferring to avoid much social interaction, had only gone to one or two, and tended to come up with excuses for the rest-that he was studying, or ill, or studying.

                “Welcome, welcome,” the stout man said again, planting his portly self at the front of the room. “I hope you all had a spectacular summer. Now, I’m sure you’ll all get tired of hearing this soon, but you all have some very important exams to look forward to come the spring. So I expect you to all put forward your best effort.”

                “Er-can I join you?” came a small voice from Sherlock’s left.

                Looking over, he saw a boy with messy, dark blonde hair looking at him rather timidly. Sherlock recognized him from passing, but couldn't recall ever having a proper conversation with the boy-or his name.

                Looking him up and down for a moment, Sherlock shrugged. “You don’t have any friends?”

                The boy slightly recoiled. “Er, I do, but, well-there isn't enough room, it’s a rather full class.”

                Sherlock looked around the room properly for the first time, and noticed with a hint of surprise that it was true-there were hardly any empty seats, save for Sherlock’s table which people had naturally avoided (thank Merlin for that).

              In his first year, once people had realized his intelligence and talent, they gathered around him like a pack of friendly wolves in all of his classes, hoping for tips or assistance, maybe even that Sherlock would let them copy his work. They soon learned this was not the case when he blatantly ignored them or snapped at them rudely if they bothered him while he was working. Not too many people were inclined to sit in close proximity to him after that, as if he would lash out if they came to close, like a wounded animal-which was, of course, ridiculous.

               “Help yourself, it doesn't bother me,” he said emotionlessly, turning his attention back to Professor Slughorn, who seemed to be finishing up a dramatic speech.

                “-and so, I look forward to seeing what you produce for me today!”

                Sherlock flipped open his book, set a fire under his cauldron, and opened his ingredients kit.

                “Er,” the boy began timidly again.

                “If you have something to say, just say it,” Sherlock said, exhausted by his companion already. “You’re just wasting your breath.”

                “Uh, I mean, right. What exactly are we supposed to be brewing?”

                “Essence of Euphoria.”

                “You heard him?”

                “No, I saw his lesson plan when I walked in.”

                The other boy smirked appreciatively, and opened his book as well. Sherlock focused on his own potion, occasionally deviating from the instructions where he saw fit-over the years, he had picked up on a few sleights of hand.

                After about half an hour of stirring, adding in ingredients, and adjusting the heat as the instructions did or did not advise, Sherlock set his potion to simmer for the next twenty minutes.

                Leaning back in his chair, he was about to reach into his bag to pull out a book to pass the time when he noticed an acrid smell tainting the air. Coughing slightly, he looked over to see copious amounts of thick smoke billowing from the other boy’s cauldron.

                “John, I think you added a few too many gurdyroots,” he observed, as though  commenting on the weather.

                “Tell me about it-wait. How did you know my name?” He seemed surprised. They always did. But that surprise would soon turn to annoyance and dislike, people thinking he was nosy and intrusive when he simply just _saw_. But to be quite honest, he had stopped caring what others thought.

                “I didn’t know. I noticed.”

                “Come again?”

                “You wrote your name on the inside of your textbook-I saw when you flipped it over. John Watson, correct?”

                “Yeah, actually. You have good eyes.”

                “I have normal eyes. Everyone else is just too blinded by trivial matters to see important things.”

                “Right.” He seemed perplexed now. Perhaps Sherlock had offended him (he never could tell).

                “Don’t worry, it’s not just you,” he assured John. “Most people are idiots. Although, I must say that not too many people are quite as atrocious at potions as you are.”

                John stood there with his mouth open while his potion continued to emit ludicrous amounts of foul-smelling smoke.

                “Well, do something about it before you smoke up the whole dungeon. It’s humid enough down here.”

                “I don’t know how to fix it. I put in too many gurdyroots, _and_ I stirred it too many times. I can’t undo that.”

                “Ah, the stirring. I knew there must be something else.”

                “Sure you did.”

                “I did.” Sherlock examined the instructions for a moment, before tossing a couple of flowerheads into John’s potion, and adding a few counterclockwise stirs. “Let it simmer for five minutes, and then continue where you left off and the damage should be minimal. And make sure to _follow_ the instructions this time.”

                John stared at him for a minute, but Sherlock didn't notice as his face was already buried in the book that he could have started reading five minutes ago.

 

* * *

 

                At the end of the class, Sherlock’s potion was by far the best-it was perfect. “Merlin’s beard, m’boy!” Slughorn exclaimed in his booming voice. “You’ve outdone yourself yet again!”

                He was rather impressed with John’s potion as well, which was as good as it could have been, all things considered.

                After cleaning up, Sherlock swung his bag over his shoulder, looking forward to his period off. He could read most of his book, as Slughorn was in such a good mood that he had decided not to give them any homework (unless someone had done particularly awful, and in that case it was just for their own personal safety more than anything).

                As he headed towards the door, Slughorn stopped him. “Sherlock, m’boy! I’m working on having my first dinner party of the year, and it’s crucial that you attend! Surely you aren't so busy this early that your schedule is already full?”

                Reluctantly, Sherlock shook his head. “No, sir.”

                “Well then, I’ll send you an invitation when I have a date, why don’t I?”

                “Yes, Professor.”

                “Look smart, John!” Slughorn called over his shoulder, and only then did Sherlock realize that John was still in the room, taking an excruciatingly long time to finish putting away his ingredients. At Slughorn’s call, he shoved the rest unceremoniously into the case, and slipped off of his chair.

                Sherlock was halfway up the stairs to the second floor when John caught up with him, panting. “I never caught your name.”

                “Why do you care?”

                “Well you know mine, so it seems only fair.”

                “I know because I figured it out. You could easily do the same-ask practically anyone in our year, or anyone in Ravenclaw. They can tell you.”

                “Maybe I want to hear it from you.”

                Sherlock paused outside one of his favorite shortcuts, gave him an appraising look, examining up and down. John made Sherlock feel a bit differently than he did most of the time, but he couldn't quite place how.

                “The name is Sherlock Holmes,” he said. He gave John a wink, and then slipped behind the tapestry and out of sight.

               

* * *

 

                It wasn't until the end of the day, after a delicious dinner, when Sherlock was sitting in his favorite armchair in front of the common room fire that it struck him-when he was talking with John, that horrible aching loneliness he often forgot was there subsided for a while, and became almost bearable. If he could avoid being too much of an arsehole, this year might be different after all.


	3. Defense Against the Dark Arts (Teacher)

John felt as though he was in a kind of trance the rest of the day, thinking about that boy who seemed to have come and gone from his life in a flash. He had only seen him once or twice over the years, but for some curious reason he now felt drawn to him when before he was just another face in a sea of magic.

Which was, if not anything else, completely strange. Sherlock was blunt, conceited, and frankly just plain rude. But he was also interesting, mysterious, and alluring. John immediately wanted to know more about him, and after Sherlock had slipped away behind the tapestry, spent the rest of the afternoon asking fellow Gryffindors and even a few Ravenclaws about the Holmes boy. Always the same question: “what can you tell me about Sherlock Holmes?”

                The answers never varied too much, either.

                “He’s a bit weird.”

                “He doesn’t really have any friends-no surprise there.”

                “He’s super intelligent and talented-then again, he is in Ravenclaw, after all.”

                “He can know the majority of your life story by just glancing at you.”

                “He’s a git.”

Assessing the garnered facts, it wasn’t at all too difficult to piece it together: Sherlock, while respected by his classmates, was far from endeared to them.

While practicing Summoning and Banishing charms for Flitwick in the common room that night, John began wondering when he would see that boy with the tousled dark hair again.

* * *

 

Sherlock didn’t see John Watson again until Wednesday, just after lunch, when he walked into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom for the first time that week. In two classes with the Gryffindors? That was an anomaly, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. Wait a minute-yes he was. Gryffindors were gits.

His eyes wandered to the front of the room, curious to see who their professor would be this year. It was long since decided that the position was jinxed, as no teacher had stayed longer than a year for some time now. Most just left for one reason or another, but there had been a few freak accidents-one professor had lost a hand in some “dueling” incident, and although it was mended in a few hours, the shock was enough to drive him away. Rumor had it that a few years back, a young female professor had suddenly and under mysterious circumstances sprouted a second head.

However, there seemed to be people desperate (or stupid) enough to risk it, because Dumbledore had always managed to find them a teacher.

The glass gradually filtered in around him, and out of the corner of his eye Sherlock saw John take a seat at the other end of the room, next to a few rambunctious Gryffindor boys.  John looked up and caught his eye, stiffening in surprise like a mouse that was confronted with a particularly vicious cat. Sherlock assumed that by now he had heard enough about him to keep his distance-all for the better, too. Sherlock had no need nor desire for friends.

He had gotten through the majority of his life without them, and planned to continue doing so. Alone protected him, as far as he was concerned. The closest he would ever need to come to having friends would be establishing polite relationships with people of power and rank, people who would benefit him in the long room. Or so he told himself.

The entire class had been there for about a quarter of an hour, and some hopefuls were muttering about the possibility of leaving if the teacher didn’t show up soon, when the double doors slammed open and a well-dressed, middle-aged man strode to the front of the room without casting a sideways glance. His silver robes billowed behind him impressively as he adjusted the frilly collar of his shirt.

“Books away,” he ordered, turning to face them. The class immediately fell silent. They could sense that this was not a man that they could pull one over on. He demanded their respect and attention (mostly just their attention), and he got it. “I am Professor Nevamann, and I expect you lot to address me as such. Since I haven’t the slightest clue what any of you are capable of, I’ll be having you divide into pairs and practice dueling to get a better judgment of each individual’s ability.

“Now, this isn’t just any normal practice. There will only be three duels going on at a time, due to the restricted space, so the rest will _observe_. No talking, or fidgeting-if you can pay attention for the forty-five remaining minutes, you might very well learn something.

“So here’s the way this is going to work-after a match is completed, the loser will go to one side of the room, and the winner to the other. Once everyone has gone, I will re-pair the winners, and we will keep going until we have the top two facing each other. Now, there’s an incentive-the grand winner will earn his or her house fifty points, and will receive a one hundred on the first exam of the term.”

Sherlock sat up straighter at that. He couldn’t care less about pointless competition between houses. But an automatic one hundred? That would be a perfect way to keep his grade up, and he could spend the class doing something far more practical. In fact, he probably wouldn’t have to attend that day at all.

Everyone else shared Sherlock’s interest-there was a ripple of excited murmuring that echoed around the room, before everyone fell silent again, eager to get started.

Professor Nevamann ordered them to the very back of the room, and with a very dramatic sweep of his wand, sent the desks flying to the front of the class, where they stacked neatly on top of each other.

Before long, they were watching their classmates duel one another, jinxes and hexes flying and rebounding everywhere, so they constantly had to stay alert and duck if necessary. Those who knew how cast a shield charm in their vicinity, for extra protection.

Most of the students were fairly good-there were many close matches. But there was also plenty of shabby spell work incorrect wand movements, flawed pronunciations, and the like. _Amateurs_ , Sherlock thought. _If they actually practiced over the holiday they would have no trouble at all with this._

Sherlock entered his first match with confidence, against a burly Gryffindor called Justin Quealy whom he was pretty sure was on the Quidditch team. He seemed intimidating when it came to size, but didn’t look particularly intelligent. Sherlock suspected he was keeper, as he could easily block the hoops by moving a few inches from side to side.

“ _Stupefy!”_ Quealy said, much too loudly and with plenty of unnecessary flourishing that left his defenses wide open.

Sherlock deflected it with a lazy flick of his wrist, and quickly sent a disarming jinx back at him, which knocked Quealy’s wand from his hand. He caught it deftly in his free hand and finished off his opponent with a petrifying jinx, completing his first duel in a matter of seconds.

Professor Nevamann, showing more than a scrap of interest for the first time so far, looked mildly impressed. “You can cast nonverbal spells, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock suspected he had studied the student profiles before class to ensure he knew everyone’s names. In fact, from this distance, if he looked closely, he could see a stack of papers on his desk, the top of which depicting a face with an extreme likeness to his own.

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock responded. Nonverbal spells happened to be many of the things that he had taught himself to do over the summer.

Nevamann gave him a swift smile and nodded in approval.

 

Ten minutes later, only John and another boy had to go, so the entire class was focused on their match. Sherlock was surprised-after witnessing the boy’s dismal performance in Potions he didn’t have high expectations for him in any other class. But he was considerably skilled at dueling, and won after only a few minutes, without getting hit by a single spell.

“Now,” began Professor Nevamann. “Those who won, remember who you are-we will continue this tournament next class. Those of you who did not, don’t be discouraged-practice in your free time. Mediocre spell work can cost you your life with the kind of mad wizards that are out and about these days.”

He waved his wand again, and the desks flew back to their original spots. Sherlock swung his bag over his shoulder, and departed with the rest of the class, too lazy to speed ahead. He fell into step beside John somehow; they didn’t exchange a word, but walked side-by-side all the way out onto the grounds, where John headed to Care of Magical Creatures, and Sherlock down to the lake to practice the aquatic spells they had just begun in Charms.

Sherlock for once couldn’t focus on his studying-his spells, while effective, were not at the level he felt they should be, and he just couldn’t get the fluid arm movements quite right. It seemed that everything he did was too sharp and precise, which was the opposite of what was needed. So he leaned against an oak tree and watched as John’s class headed into the Forbidden Forest and out of sight. Feeling strangely empty, he simply closed his eyes and took in the September sun’s warmth, ignoring the prickle of unease that crept up his spine when he pictured the newest Professor’s gallant self, and his unshakable confidence.

There was nothing to dislike about the man, and yet…Sherlock couldn’t find much of anything to like about him either.


	4. Trying Some Things Out

                The next week or so passed by in a blur of rain and fog, and the grounds around the castle looked quite dreary indeed. The leaves were still green on the trees, but they hung loose and damp as though they were awaiting permission to die, and the once-solid earth had turned into a swampland.

                John found himself more laden with homework than ever before, with assignments in every subject (save Defense Against the Dark Arts). The “competition” that took up half of each class was down to the final four contesters: Sherlock, a boy from Gryffindor, a boy from Hufflepuff, and John himself. Their only homework so far had been practicing spells, and it seemed as if everyone had done so. In the second class, the matches lasted much longer and were much closer. Everyone was looking forward to the final match to see who would win the points for their house. All the signs, of course, pointed to Gryffindor. The odds were more in their favor, with two students left to represent them. But it was not for nothing that the sole remaining Ravenclaw was Sherlock Holmes.

                John still wasn’t quite sure what to make of the boy. Despite his directness, he didn’t seem like a bad person, but most people tended to avoid him. What other people found to be strange about him, John found to be impressive and fascinating, and was actually quite surprised that Sherlock wasn’t fairly popular. If he had been in Slytherin, there would be a good chance that he would have a bit of a following going. But perhaps it was for the better that that wasn’t the case, as that was how You-Know-Who had started off, after all. Having followers rather than friends didn’t exactly foretell good things.

                In any case, the afternoon of the second Friday of term found John immersed in books in the library, in an attempt to escape the noise of the common room and get some of his homework done.

                He was halfway through a particularly nasty potions essay when he was just about ready to chuck his book across the room in frustration. _Why_ was he so dreadfully miserable at this? It wasn’t like he was a genius in any of his other classes, but potions he just couldn’t figure out for the life of him. The concept seemed easy-just follow the instructions and the potion should come out just fine. But it was so easy to lose track or make a simple mistake, and even when you did follow the instructions word-for-word, there was a good chance your cauldron would melt, or something would blow up (neither of these tended to be good signs).

                And then, to make matters worse, there were the essays. You had to explain _why_ to add something, when to add it, how it affects the potion, its various properties, and the like. It seemed much too pointless and confusing to John, who was completely ready to go to sleep, even though it wasn’t even time for dinner yet.

                In fact, it was just about time for supper when John dosed off with his face in his book, his cheek pressed against the page.

                “Is this usually what you do here? Sleep?”

                John jerked awake at the sound of the familiar voice, smooth as silk. Sherlock settled into the seat beside John, despite the variety of abandoned tables around them.

                “That’s usually the end result, yes.”

                “I would think your bed would be a bit more comfortable,” he said, pulling John’s essay towards him. Scanning the few paragraphs quickly, he muttered, half to himself, “This is utterly abysmal.”

                “Thanks. Want to help me fix it up, then?”

                “I have plenty of work to get done myself without doing yours as well. _Although_ , I think you’ll find this book a bit more helpful,” he added, shoving towards John a small handbook called _Common Potions Ingredients and Their Uses_.

                “This is the most beautiful book I’ve ever seen,” John observed, flipping through it reverently.

                “You can’t have seen many books then. I mean just look at the state of the spine.” Sherlock smirked, and John could honestly not tell if the other boy had taken him literally or not.

                John decided to simply restart his potions essay, and this time through, with the help of that marvelous book and the occasional comment from Sherlock, the process was considerably less painful. By the time he had finished though, dinner had long since passed and the sun was beginning to dip behind the distant hills.

                “Crap,” muttered John, hastily shoving his books into his bag.

                “What?” asked Sherlock, without looking up from his Ancient Ruins textbook.

                “I need to be down at the Quidditch pitch, like, _now_.”

                “What on earth would you need to be there for?”

                “Team tryouts are this evening, and it would look awful to be late.”

                Sherlock wrinkled his nose, as though he were allergic to the very thought of participating in sports. “I could show you a shortcut, if you’d like.”

                “That…would be wonderful.”

                “And you can borrow that book,” Sherlock added, gesturing to the potions book John had left on the table, while he collected his own.

                John picked it up gingerly, partially because it was the most amazing, helpful, wonderful thing that he had ever discovered, and partially because it was so old that it might disintegrate if handled too roughly.

                Sherlock led him through a secret passageway through a door that was disguised as a wall, which winded and curved an extraordinary amount, and emerged just beyond the entrance hall. John slowed down to bid the other boy goodnight, but Sherlock continued walking.

                “I think I’ll accompany you,” he said casually. “I’ve never seen Quidditch and I do wonder what all the excitement is about. Perhaps you can enlighten me.”

                “Well, this isn’t a proper game,” John pointed out.

                “I should hope not-far too many people to deal with at those. The castle is beautifully empty when there are matches though, I’ll give them credit for that.”

                “Well, the flying bit is fun,” the shorter boy pointed out kind of lamely.

                “Hmmm.”

* * *

 

                By the time they reached the Quidditch pitch, only the tryouts for chaser and seeker were left. Sherlock sat in the stands, apart from everyone else, while John grabbed a school broom and watched the potential keepers take turns defending the hoops.

                There were only three hopefuls-one was absolutely dreadful, one not bad, and the other simply magnificent. She flew with ease, and had no trouble grabbing the Quaffle from the other players, and putting it past Quealy, who was playing keeper.

                There was one other boy trying out for seeker, and he looked fast-very fast. He was even shorter than John, and extremely thin-two good things going for him. The way he mounted his broom, too, hinted that he was an experienced flier. Determined to not lose his confidence, John kicked up into the air and immediately felt his nerves drop away below him, along with the ground.

                The two boys circled the pitch a few times to show they at least knew how to stay on a broom, and then the snitch was released. Whoever caught the snitch first had a definite advantage, but that didn’t necessarily mean that they got the position-the captain made it clear he was also looking at technique and general skill in the air.

                John scanned the pitch, always keeping an eye on the other potential seeker. He flew in circles, high above the ground, looking below (and occasionally above) him for a glint of gold in the growing dark. If they took much longer, they’d have to call it quits for the night.

                He was just about to suggest they give up for the time being, when the moon peeked out from behind a cloud and something silver flitted past his ear. His adrenaline pumping, John shot forward in pursuit, and was soon joined by the other boy. Neck and neck, they chased the snitch up, down, and all around, each stretching his arm as far as possible.

                The other boy kept maneuvering his body to block John from seeing the snitch, so in his frustration, he dived under the boy, and shot up from below, catching the snitch practically from the boy’s hand on his way, and very nearly knocking him out of the air. The snitch, silver in the growing moonlight, flapped its wings slowly and calmly, as John landed, exhausted, on the grass.

                “You both did great,” said Quealy, the Quidditch Captain enthusiastically. “I’ll let you know tomorrow who made it, I need the rest of the evening to make final decisions for the team.”

               Sherlock and John began their walk up to the castle together, Sherlock commenting the whole time on how “boring” the whole thing seemed.

                “I mean, what’s the point of it, anyway? Who _cares_ , it’s just a stupid game.”

                “It’s _fun_ ,” said John, exasperated. “Surely you’ve heard of that?”

                “I prefer reading for fun.”

                “Of course you do.”

                “Hey, John, I didn’t know you were going to try out!” John turned around to see Sally, a fellow Gryffindor in his year, approaching.

                “Oh, yeah!” He had completely forgotten that she was on the team. “Do you have any idea who he’s going to choose?”

                “No, sorry. The captain’s not telling anyone.” She turned to Sherlock. “What’re you doing with _him?_ ”

                John was surprised at the sudden hostility in her voice. “He felt like coming and watching. Something wrong?”

                “Well, he’s kind of a _freak_ ,” she said in a mock whisper, but loud enough for Sherlock to hear. The Ravenclaw seemed to be having trouble finding something in his bag.

                “He seems perfectly fine to me.”

                “Well, you shouldn’t hang around with him,” she said, giving John a meaningful look.

                “I think I’ll decide that for myself, thanks,” he snapped, and shoved passed her, purposely slamming her with his shoulder. “Come on, Sherlock. If we don’t hurry up we’ll get in trouble for being out too late.”

                “John-” began the dark-haired boy, once they were inside the doors.

                “Wow, I didn’t realize.”

                “Realize what?”

                “That Sally is a huge git.”

                Sherlock grinned in spite of himself. “I don’t think she ever got over me beating her in Divination last year.”

                “You take Divination?”

                “I did for two years. I dropped it though. It’s a completely ridiculous, pointless subject.”

                “I figured you’d say something like that. Why did you take it at all, though?” John inquired, lifting an eyebrow.

                “Well, it was good for relaxing my mind. Allowed me to think. I was actually pretty good at it-I’m good at making predictions based on the comings and goings around me. Not seer stuff, but it was enough to impress the professor. Besides, when I couldn’t do that, it’s really easy just to make stuff up.”

                “That’s how I got by. Dropped it as soon as I could, though,” John added.

                Before long they were outside the portrait hole to Gryffindor Tower, which Sherlock passed when he didn’t take a short cut.

                “See ya, Sherlock.”

                “John?”

                “Yeah?”

                “Thanks.”

* * *

 

               That night, John’s dreams were filled with blue-green eyes that glinted with gold, and soft smiles that spoke gratitude. The next morning though, he remembered none of these visions.


End file.
